Chasing Horizons



Chapter Four

DISCLAIMER :: This tale is relative to Captain Marvel from the comics, movies, and television from Marvel Comics and Marvel Studios. There are some glaring differences, so this is a derivative work rather than straight-up fanfiction.


Author's note: To those hoping to see a chapter of Webs We Weave this week, I sincerely apologize. I hadn't written a single word of it until last night. My wife and I got COVID and have been summarily incapacitated for over a week. Part of me is really glad I have chapters of Chasing Horizons in reserve so that people get something to read this week. Thanks for understanding, everyone.

(( Chapter Theme: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VzEYQLANWgo ))

Go, go, gadget Google. I found what I believed to be the nearest full service truck stop with a rain room and chow hall with 24-hour parking, then followed the GPS there. The “near” part was entirely subjective. Technically, there was a spot closer to the base but it was all the way down toward the Mexican border. Instead, I opted for one just outside the vast expanse that is Los Angeles, California. This “Roadside Oasis” was just the sort of locale I would use as a forward operating post while I figured out what I was going to do with myself.

In the entirety of my adult life, I’d never lived anywhere but on a military base. It was the singles barracks as an enlisted rank and then BOQs when I was commissioned. I never needed anything else and I was stowing away a nest egg for when I retired after 30 years of service. With some mature investing, I was officially a millionaire. Barely. Still, I wouldn’t want for much when it came to money, but I had nowhere to go. I had no time to prepare anything. I was adrift at sea with a broken rudder. The oars were washed away in the storm that broke the rudder.

Parking in the lot to the side of the main building, I let out a sigh. I pulled out my dogtags from under the PT sweater and looked them over. They bore my name, blood type, social security number, branch of service, my gas mask size, and my religious affiliation. All critical information should I have ever been med-evac’d and unconscious. A melancholy chuckle escaped my lips because the gas mask size was likely incorrect now. Next, I pulled my wallet out of the right pocket of the leather bomber jacket I wore. Inside, I had my CAC, California Driver’s License, and the USID that had been issued to me as part of my retirement. The two I’d acquired just after we’d returned from deployment after Christmas last year had my photo as I knew myself to be. The USID had been issued in the last few days as part of the separation process. That picture was me as I appear now, with the collar of the khaki shirt and my rank pins showing. No cover was on my head because the photo was taken indoors. I couldn’t help but feel the weight of the juxtaposition between the two images of myself. The most jarring was the word “retired” at the top of the USID.

Frustrated and hungry, I put everything back in place and resolved to scan the building for something satisfactory to throw down my gullet. Walking along the sidewalk, there were a couple stares. Ignoring them, I headed inside to find out this place wasn’t the kind of place I was looking for. “Large-lot gas station with room for semi tractor-trailers” isn’t what I was looking for when seeking full-service truck stops. All they had here was a lot of crap and standard fried food from the freezers. I also asked if they allowed overnight parking and the answer was a stern “NO”. The decision to take my business elsewhere was expedient.

Climbing back into my SUV, I queued up the search again. This time, I opted to check the photos before deciding. I’d have to travel further into the “Inland Empire” but there was an international airport nearby that I could take advantage of should I choose to do so. I chose the site carefully. The Petro in Ontario was the winning candidate. It had a Popeye’s and you can’t go wrong with their fried chicken. GPS set, I made my way to Ontario. It was over an hour drive away, so I tried to get comfortable and turn on some music. The truck enabled some phone functions through a cord. It’s a 5th Gen 4Runner. The newer 6th Gen that just came out that year had full wireless setups, but I had decided to keep my 2022. I had bought it to celebrate my 20th Anniversary of active duty service. It was starting to feel like a premature celebration.

My melancholy thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a phone ringing through the JBL speakers. Tapping a button on the steering wheel, I answered, “Hello?”

“Are you supposed to be Sam’s lady for the night? Where’s Sam? How do you have his phone?” The gruff male voice on the other end of the phone wondered.

I knew immediately who the voice belonged to. He was a long time friend. “Dizzy, it’s a long story. I’m not sleeping with Sam. I am Sam.”

“Bullshit. Stop fuckin’ with me. Where’s Sam?”

My growl was not nearly as imposing as I would have liked it to be. “Dammit, Corporal, I didn’t pull your ass out of the suck after that IED to have my honor questioned!”

He hesitated. Back in 2004, we were both with the 22nd Marine Expeditionary Unit and deployed to Afghanistan. He had just gotten his Corporal rank before we deployed. We were there to establish Forward Operating Base Ripley and found out the hard way that insurgents don’t play nice. Cpl. Diego “Dizzy” Ramirez was one of only two marines to be injured by IEDs in the whole unit. He was only a little older than me at the time. I was still a Lance Corporal. While the others reacted to the ambush, I pulled him away from the engagement zone and into cover near the corpsman for immediate first aid. When the smoke cleared, we would med-evac him as soon as possible. It took time for the CH-46 to get to us. He lost both legs.

“How the fuck do you know about that?” He asked sternly.

“I was the Lance Corporal that pulled you back to the Corpsman,” I answered just as sternly. “I took a week of leave to visit you in Walter Reed when we got back stateside.”

He let out an audible sigh. “I’m gonna say that I tentatively believe you. What happened?”

“I’m not going to say over an unsecured cellular network, Dizzy. What I will say is that I’ve been forced into retirement.” I exhaled hard.

“Whoa, what?! No shit?! Does it have something to do with the voice I’m hearing right now?”

“Unfortunately, it does. Pursuant to Executive Order 14183, I have been forced into a medical retirement by the Secretary of Defense.”

“Oh, fuck… did you even get a stand-down or anything? Usually, they grant you leave for at least a few days, right?”

“There’s no process for leave before a medical retirement, Dizzy. You should know this.”

“The WWR gave me three days in DC to check out the sights. Once I got out, I crashed with my mom for a minute. You got anywhere to go? Maybe your folks?”

I scoffed. “Go back to Dayton?! You kidding me?! Colonel ‘Dick’ Danvers would boot me out on my expanded ass quicker than you can say ‘devil dog’! That’s not gonna happen.”

He laughed. “Okay, you might be Sam. He’s the only one that liberally calls his dad ‘Dick’.”

“As opposed to ‘Ranger Rick’, you mean? Fucker went Air Force and thinks he’s a hard ass.”

He laughed even harder. “Right… What about your sister? Wouldn’t she put you up?”

“Laura?” I shook my head as if he could see me while changing lanes to give some room for a semi to get on the freeway. “She might, but she’s got her, Chris, and the three girls. They’ve got a cute family vibe going on. I wouldn’t want to impose, y’know? Besides, the hell am I gonna do in suburban Chicago?”

I could almost hear him nod. “That’s fair. Stupid, but fair. What’s your plan?”

I shrugged. “Best I’ve got is to pull into a truck stop, grab some chow, fold down the seats, pull out a blanket or two, and sit there for tonight. I’ll figure out my next steps in the morning.” I let out a sigh. “I sailed into a storm, Dizzy. My oars are gone and my rudder’s broken. Compass is stuck and the GPS is down.”

He could hear the tone in my voice. “Look, Danvers, why don’t you come into the city? I run a community center in Boyle Heights. I built a couple of apartments on the top floor of a three-story building. You can bunk here until you find something better. I’ll text you the address.”

“I’ll think about it. I don’t wanna impose…”

“Oh, lock it the fuck up, Marine. You need a rack. I’ve got one. We don’t leave anyone behind. That includes you. Semper Fi.”

“Oorah. Let me get some chow and perform an anal-cranial loopback, first.”

“Fair enough. I’ll stay up on watch until you get here. I wanna hear the story of why you sound like some 4th Battalion recruit, though.”

“They decommissioned that two years ago, Dizzy. I’ll see you around Balls.” I hung up and let out a long sigh.

Classic rock from the ‘70s, ‘80s, ‘90s, and ‘00s poured out of the speakers and rumbled through the cabin for the rest of the journey to the truck stop. I’ve always been criticized for my “dad rock” tastes, but today’s music just doesn’t compare to AC/DC, Black Sabbath, Ozzy Osbourn, Metallica, the Beastie Boys, or Twisted Sister. Some bands come close, like the Emo and New Metal Era of the ‘00s, but still don’t totally compare. Linkin Park and Nickelback are about the only bands I’d include among “the greats”. Speaking of which, “Burn it to the Ground” came through the speakers just as I was pulling into the truck stop. Bad timing, I guess.

I haven’t been to too many truck stops in my past. However, this Petro had to be one of the nicer ones. Its facade was caked in stucco with a white, green, and red stripe paint job. Inside was much cleaner than I expected. Truck stops are for the working guys that aren’t afraid to get a little dirty. The little building on the far west side of the gigantic truck parking lot would be the last thing I would think to be this clean. I’ll give the credit where it’s due: the place was squared away like a Marine platoon had been through and prepared it for an inspection. There was a big convenience store, apparel shop, nice restaurant, a laundromat, and showering facilities. It looked like a great place to relax a little after a long day of hauling freight.

The looks I got, though, were downright predatory. Parking across from the main entrance, the walk to the front door garnered a few glances. Once inside, it was worse. A few guys turned to look and/or gawk. It made my skin crawl. I could smell the restaurant and my stomach growled. Without a word, my feet carried me toward the chow my stomach desperately wanted. Problem: I was three minutes too late for food from the Iron Skillet. I’d have to see what the hot box had in store. Thankfully, it had a decent selection. One double cheeseburger with lettuce and tomato order later, I was sitting in a dining area near the game room. With my back to the bulkhead, I could watch the area around me easily. It took a lot to ignore the stares from the older men taking a break from the road. One that seemed to be a little older than me and have a permanent scowl tattooed on his face was watching me from the middle of the room. In the middle of trying to eat my burger, he finally stood up and approached me.

“Do you know what stolen valor is, young lady?!” He growled and nearly spat on me.

I rolled my eyes and swallowed the chow in my mouth before speaking. “I’m aware. What do you want?”

“Ain’t no way in hell your little ass is a Knightrider or that you’ve been part of the 22 MEU! Maybe I should call your unit! Think I’ve got an AWOL reward comin’ my way!”

I rolled my eyes. He’d seen the morale patches on my bomber jacket and started making assumptions. Without looking at him, I set my half-eaten burger down and wiped my hands with a napkin. “Did you serve?”

“You bet your ass I did! Marine Corps all the way! You’re a disgrace having that EGA on your sweatpants!”

“Did you go to recruit training in San Diego or Parris Island? What battalion?”

“I was a Hollywood Marine. First Battalion. So what?”

“What rank were you when you got out?”

“Lance Corporal. And?”

Now, I was mad. I narrowed my eyes and furrowed my brow, then stood up. It didn’t matter that I was half a head shorter than him. I started yelling like the best Drill Instructor that ever molded a Fourth Battalion platoon into Marines. “Firstly, they’re PT trousers! Secondly, I didn’t serve my country for twenty-three mother-fucking years, deploy to Iraq and Afghanistan TWICE, bust my ass through college while maintaining ancient-ass aircraft, get a degree, ace OCS, get through three and a half years of flight training, and earn my place as an Aviation Maintenance Officer so some lazy, fat-ass Lance Corporal could try to get in my face about ‘stolen valor’ at a truck stop in Nowheresville, California!” He started backing up. I thought it was my commanding presence, but it was in fact that yellow glowing thing that started to engulf my body. “You will address me as ‘sir’ or ‘Captain’, Lance Corporal! Do you understand me?!”

His eyes were as big as serving platters. He kept backing up as I advanced. “Y-yes, s-sir… a-any th-thing you s-say, s-sir.”

The glow intensified. “Good to go! Now, carry on and get the fuck out of my face so I can eat my chow in peace!”

He didn’t answer further, merely turned and ran. Moron wouldn’t have lasted an hour in a combat zone. I could feel the eyes of another trucker in the vicinity staring at me. My head snapped in his direction. “You have anything to say, old man?!”

The man who was probably in his mid-50s quickly shook his head. It didn’t occur to me that he had also chosen a seat with his back to the bulkhead. “No, ma’am. Not about that. I know they say that women glow sometimes, but you’re literally glowing right now. I don’t want no trouble. I’m just lettin’ ya know.”

That snapped me out of my rage. I looked down at my hand to see it glowing with the yellow St. Elmo’s Fire sort of thing I’d been seeing on it sporadically since that day on the tarmac. The internals of my hand were glowing with the yellow-red light that put the cardiovascular system of my hands on full display. Shaking my head, I took some quick breaths and regained my bearing. After a few moments, the effects soon went away and I was breathing normally. Stabilizing my breathing and regaining my bearing, I glanced at the older trucker.

“Sorry about that, sir.” I apologized. “Shouldn’t have happened.”

He chuckled. “‘Sir’ my ass. I work for a livin’.” He waved off the mistake with his hand. “Don’t worry your pretty head over it. You had every right to give that boy what-for. Just be careful of the collateral damage, eh?”

“Copy that, sir. Again, I’m sorry.”

“You said you served twenty-three years? Something happen?”

“I’m really not at liberty to discuss it, but… yes. Something happened. Completely out of my control and they forced me into retirement. Happened this afternoon.”

The older man winced. “Ouch. Sorry to hear that. Wound’s still fresh, huh? No wonder your fuse is a little short. You’ll land on your feet, though. Somehow, you Marines always do.”

“Thanks for the encouragement, sir.”

He smiled. “One grunt to another? I didn’t see nothin’.” He stood and left the area.

It’s only then that I noticed his cap. He was an Army veteran from the Operation Desert Storm days. I called out to him. “What was your rank, Soldier?”

He turned for only a moment. “Staff Sergeant.” He turned away from me again and I noticed his limp.

It’s likely he was a combat veteran. I instantly regretted disrespecting him as I went back to my cheeseburger and rethinking my life choices.

With everything going on, I was a veritable tinder box. I would really need to find somewhere to do a self sitrep. There’d been a few times in my life when I was this dangerous a powder keg. One of those times was the day Dizzy lost his legs. I distinctly remember throwing a fit as soon as the chopper casevac’d him and screaming, “He better live, goddamn it! So help me, he better live or the almighty himself will feel the wrath of this devil dog!”

I was barely 20. Cut me some slack.

Finished with the burger, I disposed of the packaging and ignored the predatory glances toward my aft while making it back toward my truck. To have a little time to collect my thoughts, I started converting the cab into a makeshift campsite. My truck was somewhat unique. To create a flat surface for cargo/sleeping, I’d have to first pull up the “butt part” of the seat and let it roll forward, creating the “headboard”. Then, the headrest would roll forward. One button later and the seat back finally could fold forward, creating that flat surface. It was a pretty neat little trick. Doing that with both sides of the split seating created a pretty big area for sleeping, even with my seabag and duffel joining me. I pulled one of two big, fluffy comforters and folded it to create a pseudo mattress. I’d use the other to cover up with. My duffel, filled primarily with clothing, would make a suitable pillow for the time being.

Before I could settle in for the night, two things prevented me from climbing in and getting some sleep: one, the talk I had with Dizzy earlier; two, something more… elusive. I don’t really know how to explain it, but I knew something was wrong. A long, thick, midnight blue van with no windows besides the driver, passenger, and windshield rolled into the parking lot and chose a berthing on the far side of the lot. Cargo van, but something didn’t sit right with me about it. The decision was made to discreetly watch the van for a few minutes. As with the test back on base, I somehow knew there were several people inside that van: driver, passenger, and six in the back. Three were hostiles. At the time, I didn’t know how I could possibly know that.

After a few moments, one male and one female emerged from the rear door of the van. The sliding side panel door quickly shut behind them. He had short hair and a goatee while wearing a denim jacket, t-shirt, jeans, and some kind of boots. She was dressed in very short shorts, a tank top, and heels. Her hair and makeup were done up in a fancier style than her clothes would suggest. The male and female walked toward the store but he never let go of her arm. I took off my bomber jacket and PT sweater, leaving just a plain green t-shirt, PT trousers, and my go-fasters.

Following them indoors, they went directly to the nearest restroom. The female was practically shoved inside and angrily told to hurry up. The male never left the bulkhead near the hatch for the women’s room. Playing it cool, I grabbed a bag of chips I didn’t want and a soda I might drink later before going to the counter. Quietly, I told the man behind the counter to call 9-1-1. At first, he scoffed, but once I said something about the female being a prisoner of some kind, he did make the call. I didn’t buy anything I’d picked up. Instead, I made my way over to the restroom and used my current facade to my advantage to try gaining access to the same women’s restroom. The guy stopped me just outside.

“Occupied,” He growled, putting himself between me and the hatch.

“It’s a multi-stall bathroom. More than one person can piss in there.” I answered before advancing a step.

Again, he tried to impede me. This time, he played his card. He had a semi-automatic pistol in the pocket of his jacket. A Glock, which was incredibly stereotypical. “Maybe you didn’t hear me, bitch! I said it’s occupied!”

Let’s get one thing straight: sure, the Marine Corps does have hand-to-hand instruction in recruit training and occasionally among combat units, but it does not live up to the hype. To be clear: a ten year old with a green belt in Tae Kwon Do has more hand-to-hand combat expertise than what a marine learns from MCMAP training. In order to be decent in hand-to-hand combat, it’s almost implied that a marine should seek outside training unless they’re Force Recon, MARSOC, or something equally as badass. I had done none of those things, so I only had the basic-level instruction from twenty years ago to draw upon. One thing we were taught in a hostile hand-to-hand scenario: get in and kill them before they have a chance to hurt you. So, that’s what I did. I advanced on him without a second thought, plowed into him with a knee to the groin, and slammed him against the wall. Though, I may have hit him too hard. I don’t know about internal injuries but the drywall behind him turned into a spiderweb from the impact. At least he dropped the firearm.

Relieving him of his weapon, I picked it up and checked it over. It was not well maintained, there was a round in the chamber, and the 15-round magazine was full. Weapon in hand, I rushed into the restroom to find the female. I could hear her crying in the handicap stall.

“Ma’am, are you all right?” I asked from the outer side of the hatch. An attempt was made to have it sound authoritative and in control, but who can do that with the soft, high sound of a teenage female voice?

“How’d you get past the guy outside?” She sounded genuinely afraid.

“Kneed him in the balls and slammed him against the wall. How else?” I rolled my eyes. I need intel, not twenty questions. “How many of you are in that van?”

She got quiet for a second, then swallowed hard. “There’s four other girls and two other guys.”

“Good to go. Ma’am, it would be best if you stayed here until the police arrived. Just to confirm: I know you’re a victim of something. I’m just not 100% sure what.”

She choked back a sob. “I’m seventeen. They took me when I was walking home from school. They’ve done… so many things to us… they turned us into whores…” She cried harder.

My heart sank. “You’re the victim of human trafficking.” I let out a quick breath, resolving that intervention was not only necessary but a moral imperative. “Very well. Stay here, please.”

“What are you going to do? They have guns!”

“I’m gonna improvise, adapt, and overcome.”

Without another word, I moved out of the restroom. Checking in with the employee at the counter, he was on the phone with the local 9-1-1 operator. I told him to inform the police that it was a human trafficking situation and they should also call in EMTs. I had the pistol in my hand but the muzzle was pointed at the deck. When I finished speaking with him, though, I moved quickly out of the building. There was a lot of distance to cover between the entrance and the van. I tucked the pistol into the waistband of my trousers in the small of my back. There was no need to show my hand. They didn’t know I’d be coming for them, so maintaining the element of surprise was key to the not-plan I was thinking of.

To my chagrin, the general parking lot outside the building was actually illuminated fairly well. Keeping my cool, I strolled over to my truck which was at the edge of the well-lit lot. Ducking around the body of the truck, I moved toward the shadows in an effort to use the concealment to my advantage. There was no light over the van, which made sense given their activities. It also worked according to my idea. Keeping low, I approached the rear of the van and pulled the pistol from my waistband. Watching the sideview for any indication of what was happening in the cab, I rounded the passenger side and slowly crept toward the door. Taking a breath to solidify the plan in my head, it seemed the best course of action to incapacitate the man in the passenger side and raise the pistol at the driver.

Quietly, I tested the door. Not locked. Stupid. Quickly pulling on the handle was a mistake. The thing broke off in my hand. My mind raced. How the heck was I going to get the door open if I’d just broken the handle? The question was answered for me when the passenger opened it and scrambled out of the vehicle. Also stupid. The pistol was in my right hand. I swung that around to smack him in the face. A “crunch” sound emanated from his face. I may have broken his nose. At the very least, it sent him to the deck holding his face and crying out. Incapacitation achieved, however sloppy the execution.

Turning into the cab of the van, I leveled the pistol toward the driver… who wasn’t present. The sight of the weapon did cause the girls in the back to shriek, though. The driver side door was open and I didn’t see the driver rounding the front. Turning toward the rear, I moved to stack up near the tail lights. Like an idiot, the guy stormed around the vehicle, not even bothering to use any cover. As he came around the vehicle, I tore the weapon from his hands and delivered a front kick to his pelvis. He fell over like a boiled sausage.

Leveling the firearm at his head, I growled the best I could. “I can hit a bullseye at 25 yards with a standard issue SIG Sauer. I’d advise you to stay down unless you want to test my marksmanship with a Glock at less than one yard.”

His only response was to cry out and writhe in pain. Situational awareness and that sense in the back of my mind told me that the hostile situation had been neutralized. They weren’t going to try attacking me any time soon. I decided to place the submachine gun in the passenger seat and only then noticed it was a Skorpion. Then, I searched Mr. Broken Nose for weapons, finding another Glock and Skorpion on him, and placed those on the passenger seat. The driver didn’t have another weapon. I secured the pistol I was carrying back in the waistband of my PT trousers after switching on the safety. Finally, I opened the sliding door to reveal the other four females inside. To my horror, they looked way too young to be out at this hour of night wearing the wardrobe they had on.

“What in the Jeffrey Epstein nightmare is going on here?” I asked the girls huddled against the rear double doors. My demeanor softened toward these young women—girls, really. “Hey, whoa, it’s okay, ladies. I’m here to hurt the guys holding you. Not you personally. Your friend is safe. She’s in the head in the building.” I shook my head to remind myself I was speaking to civilians. “Sorry, in the bathroom.”

“Did you get stabbed?” One girl shrieked, pointing at me.

I raised an eyebrow in confusion. “No. None of them even touched me.”

Still riding the adrenaline, a second spoke up. “No, she’s not stabbed. Shark Week just started, that’s all.”

Still confused, my voice actually rose in pitch a few steps. “Shark Week?”

Feeling a little more secure, the four started climbing out of the van with the second speaker rolling her eyes. “Your period, moron. Did you grow up in one of those fundie camps or something? Come with us, Army Girl. We’ll get you cleaned up.”

“I’m a Marine.” Then I looked down at the crotch of my trousers. Sure enough, blood stain. “Mother fuckin’ WHAT?!”